


Endgame and the Beginning

by Calleva



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-25
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-07-17 12:25:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16095644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calleva/pseuds/Calleva
Summary: Sequel to 'Endgame'Marcheaux has been sent to General Porthos du Vallon in the war against Spain. But it seems, old habits die hard.......





	Endgame and the Beginning

It was only for laughs, he didn't hit them that hard, not so as to draw blood. Usually. 

Rising to the expectant sound of jeering, Georges Marcheaux pulled off his jacket and swung at the newest recruit. He pulled most of it at the last moment but it was fun to see the kid flinch and groan with fright. The men around him laughed. Georges had already got the respect of many of them; there was Moreau in the corner giving his knowing smile. He liked Moreau, the man never said too much but he had a natural authority. There was an ironic look about his eyes, which showed that he appreciated and was amused by rebelliousness. 

Army life might be all right after all. General Porthos had been a Musketeer, and thus an enemy of the Red Guard, but no hard feelings now. They'd had a good chat. Porthos had a harsh youth as well and understood the choices: join the sharks or be eaten by them. Marcheaux wasn't sure what choice Porthos had made, but he could fight dirty if he had to.

____

Porthos was ready for his last visitor before lunch. "Auguste, how are our new boys doing?"  
"Shaping up," the slender figure in the neat blue uniform bowed before sitting, he liked how Porthos didn't hold him up with useless chatter. "However I am concerned about Marcheaux. His old habits are hard for him to shake off. He isn't leadership material, so he tries to impress by his old Red Guard tactics, beating up the new boys. He pulls his punches, but even so....."  
"I don't like bullies, they are usually cowards and I've no place for those in my army, aside from cleaning the latrines."  
"I'd agree with you, sir, but he has shown courage in the field. He pulled out a wounded men from range of the cannon, and he needn't have. No one noticed the injured man at the time."  
"I heard... but it was an old Red Guard mate of his."  
"A true coward would have left him to die. That's why I recommended him for the award. Encourages the others and shows him appreciation for doing the right thing." "True, we've got to sort him out. Thanks for the word."  
Moreau stood up, saluted and with a curt bow left the General.

 _What a shame_..... because the lad did have courage. He was intelligent too.... If he could have the same loyalty to his unit as to the Red Guard!

 

Marcheaux wondered what feat of arms had earned this summons to the General. He had felt so proud when his courage had been noted. Credit for bravery was a matter of chance - you had to be seen or even if you dispatched half a regiment with your bare hands, it wouldn't win praise. He'd seen hidden acts of courage that would earn highest medals go unrewarded. He'd done some scary things himself before he'd been spotted pulling Dubois out of harm's way. That was the nature of the job, but oddly enough he found himself enjoying it anyway.

He entered the tent and saluted smartly, trying to keep an expectant smile from his face. Porthos was reading a document. Then he looked up. Marcheaux was surprised at the expression on the General's face.  
"What's this I hear about your beating on the recruits?" His casual tone was in contrast to his stern eyes.  
"I - er.... I didn't hurt anyone, sir." Marcheaux stared straight ahead. Who had been ratting on him?  
"I gave you a chance and you repay me by getting up to your old Red Guard tricks! We are neither of us fighting for survival any more. There is no excuse for this disgusting behaviour! You can empty and scrub the latrines for a month and perhaps that will sort out your swagger. If it doesn't you can go back home to Paris or wherever it is you crawled out of, and your pay will be docked. You can go onto the streets and fight like you once had to. Or you can be a man, a real man, and a credit to your unit. Your choice. Now get out of here, and report to the aide de camp." Porthos looked down at his desk again, ignoring the former Red Guard. _Early days yet_ , he thought.

Marcheaux almost forgot to salute before he fled like a scalded cat. At least they didn't remove his bravery commendation. 

Porthos had not meant the punishment to be that severe; he simply wanted to frighten the lad. Marcheaux spent a couple of days cleaning latrines and shovelling horse dung, then he was requisitioned by the cook to prepare vegetables, chop meat, and forage locally. A couple of times when out foraging he was tempted to steal the odd chicken, but managed to resist. He found himself wishing to impress the dark-complexioned General with the warm smile. Porthos was not someone you wanted to disappoint.

\--------

Marcheaux felt grateful for the cool feel of the musket in his hand again and returned to the front determined to do his best. His old friend Moreau seemed less interested in him, but that was all right, there were plenty of others. Michel Lalande, for instance, who could have been a kindred spirit, except that he had never been the protégé of a Marquis and lacked a certain, well, polish. He had a lazy, louche laugh and drew men to himself with ease, which Marcheaux had never done. He found himself in a ring with Lalande in the centre mocking a recruit who had shown insufficient 'respect'. "Now shall I beat the _merde_ out of him, or .... wash him instead?" He slung the youth into the horses' drinking trough, holding him under water for a few seconds. The lad came up coughing and choking, to the laughter of the surrounding men.

Something about the whole scene made Marcheaux uneasy and he walked away silently. He also had a feeling that his presence might be marked by whoever ratted him in. As he walked back to his tent, he noticed Moreau who smiled at him, but this time the smile looked less conspiratorial. Strange man, that. He never got into trouble for mixing with bad company!

To his dismay, Marcheaux was again summoned to Porthos' tent. This time he saluted carefully, his face white and serious. He had his apology already worded. _Not the streets, please no, not them. I'd much rather serve you....._

Porthos laid aside the scroll and looked up at once, "Ah Georges. All well?"  
"Y-yes, sir. Thank you sir." Marcheaux rapped. What was the great bear up to?  
"I've heard some good things about your action in the field. Quick thinking, quiet bravery. Good. Not been beating on the recruits either. Let someone else do it..." He gave a deep chuckle. Marcheaux braced himself for the let down.  
"So I've decided what to do with you. Sauveterre has retired, so I'm offering his post to you. It's usually given to an older man but I'm mindful of your experience in the militia. You've shown yourself loyal. This is for a month, and if all goes well, it becomes less temporary. You'll need to see the corps tailor. Report back to me tomorrow morning after roll call. Dismissed Adjutant Marcheaux." and Porthos went back to writing on the scroll.

Georges left the tent in a daze.... Adjutant! He would be a personal aide to the General - less fighting however. A few months ago he'd have been delighted at that prospect, but now he felt a slight sense of loss. He liked the comradeship of battle, he knew he wasn't a great leader but he could think fast and rescue a tough situation. But this new role..... He found himself longing to tell someone but there wasn't anyone. His parents were long dead, and Governor Feron too.... but then the Marquis might not have been so impressed. Marcheaux could imagine the King's brother using his most mocking tone to congratulate him. He had loved Feron and loved serving him too, but this was different; it challenged him.

As he walked to the army tailors, he passed Auguste Moreau who was lounging against a tent rope, idly picking at the handle of his rapier. Moreau looked across at him "Well done," he said softly, then straightened up and sheathed his rapier.

Marcheaux watched him walk away and understood.


End file.
